Conversations with the Sleeping
by White-Lily-Blossom
Summary: Draco suffers from survivers guilt, Hermione from denial, Harry from a spell, and me? I suffer from a lack of sleeping hours and too much sugar.Two parts.
1. Part I

Desclaimer: Not mine, although I wish on a twinkling star every night.

----------

I.

The door opens. A young man, wearing expensive, tailored robes and a heavy cloak enters. He has very light blond hair, piercing gray eyes, and the pale looks of someone just after an illness. Nevertheless, he holds himself proudly, his thin shoulders straight, and his face, though still a little gaunt, are handsome.

The room itself is obviously a hospital room, and a private one. The floor is scrubbed clean and a little worn, the curtains, drawn back from the two windows, are clean and ironed, and the crisp sheets covering the only bed in the room are the same sterile white as the walls.

Even the sun, shining merrily through the windows, cannot banish the loneliness surrounding this room.

The man sits in the stiff chair beside the bed. He folds his cloak, and after searching in vain for somewhere to put it, he just holds in his arms.

He doesn't look at the man lying in the bed, motionless, his closed eyelids covering eyes of vivid green and his unruly black bangs hiding an unusual, lightning-shaped scar.

Some time passes. Then the man sighs "I still don't understand why you did that," he says. His voice sounds rough, unused, and too loud in the room.

"Why you saved my life," he clarifies, to no one "when it was obvious how much it would cost you. How much it had cost you".

"I mean, we were hardly what you'd call friends. Not even acquaintances. We hated each other. At school, we constantly made each other's life hell".

A pause. "Well, more me than you, but that's not the point. The point- the point is, we were on the same side, yes, both of us being in the order, and yes, we fought next to one another in the last battle, but-"he frowns, struggling with the words.

"You didn't have to take that spell instead of me. I wouldn't have done that for you. I would have understood if it was Granger, or Weasley-well-" a cough.

"The point is, I don't understand why you did that, why you pushed me when that Death Eater aimed at me. What did it matter to you, if I died? Why did you think my life was more than yours?"

The man sighs again, running a fidgeting hand through his hair. "Look at me, sitting here and talking to a vegetable. And you, of all people. Well, you won't catch me here again, I can promise you that. I just wanted answers, but it's obvious you can't give them to me".

He gets up, the chair screeching unpleasantly across the floor. He crosses quickly to the door, than pauses, not looking back.

"Goodbye, Potter" he says quietly, and the door shuts behind him a moment later.

In the bed, the dark-haired man continues to breathe calmly, the rise and fall of his chest almost unnoticeable.

--------

II.

The door opens. The same man from before, now in well-cut trousers and a long coat over a golf sweater, enters slowly.

He looks healthier, not so pale, and his face lost some of its gauntness, though it is still narrow.

He stands for a minute, then sits beside the bed.

"Hello, Potter," he says.

"You still look the same. Your healer, she- she said there isn't much of a chance, that you'll get better. That you'll wake up".

He still doesn't look at the bed. "Why did you do it?" he asks again, though it's not so much a question anymore "you already defeated Voldemort for good- can't say killed, as he wasn't all that alive to begin with- the only thing left to do was round up the Death Eaters left. They weren't that many. You killed Bellatrix Lastrange and her husband already, and Dolohov we caught a while before that, and my father-"he cuts himself off, scraping the sole of his shoe on the floor.

"You had a whole life ahead of you. With your talents, you could get any job you wanted, and what your talents wouldn't have gotten you, your fame would've. You could have settled down, have a few kids- well," he corrects himself, flushing lightly "not with Ginny Weasley, obviously, but you were young. You would've gotten over her death eventually, met some other girl, had a few brats," he takes off his coat, dropping it on the foot of the bed.

"You had Granger and Weasley-" he stops again.

"I need to go," he says. No one answers him. "I have things to do- I'm helping with the restoration of the Hogwarts Library- Granger's sometimes there, too-"

He gets up, not looking back.

"Well, goodbye," he offers, grudgingly. "I won't be back".

The door closes behind him.

In the room, the man continues to breathe quietly, the white, starched covers tucked around him.

---------

III.

The door opens. The blond man, in robes again, enters, but this time, although he looks completely healed, he is leaning on an elegant wooden cane.

He sits, with some difficulty.

"Stupid me," he says "I get through the war with not much more than a scratch, and then, bam- one of the library walls collapses on me. Hermione patched me up pretty well, considering she's no medi-witch- but then, she was always good with healing spells, between the battles. Anyway, it was enough 'till the healers arrived, and then they fixed everything, but I still have to use this" he indicated his cane.

"My father used to have one, do you remember? A cane" he laughs, without much humor "looked a right ponce, what with that cane, all carved and gilded with silver, with a bloody snake's head at the top".

He sobers "threw it away, first chance I got. It's not like he'll ever use it again, in any case. Him being dead and all".

"I started repairing the Manor, yesterday. I-"he looks through a window. "When you were there, just after my father was captured and killed, and I inherited the Manor, you said it looked so cold. You said you understood, a little, why I was such a bastard. That any child will be fucked up, after growing up in a place like that, all made of ice and shadows".

He takes a deep breath "you said it was a shame there were no flowers, in the gardens. Just trees and old statues and pruned shrubbery. Well, mother grew roses, but they were ruined, in the beginning, and they never bloomed that well, anyway".

A long silence. Then he says quietly "I asked Hermione what flowers you liked. She said you liked happy flowers, what ever that meant. Wild flowers and bright flowers and the such. She said you probably would've liked lilies. Because of your mother".

He smoothes his robes "so I planted all these, sweet-pee and daffodils and anemones and poppies. And a fourth of an acre of lilies, every sort I could find. I thought," he hesitates "that you would've liked to see them. If you could, that is. Maybe that's something worth waking up for".

He glances at a golden pocket watch he takes out "I'm late" he says. "I had to be at the ministry fifteen minutes ago. I'm starting to work there, as a full time auror".

He gets up, pauses at the door. "I won't say that I won't be back," he says, "because we both know it'll be a lie. Goodbye, then".

The door closes behind him.

In the room, the sun creates patterns on the face of the sleeping man.

-------

IV.

The door opens. The blond man comes in, holding a vase and a bouqui of flowers, wrapped in a blue plastic wrapper. He is wearing muggle clothes again, and his cane is gone.

"I brought you some flowers," he says. "Completely platonic, of course. Just thought your room could use a bit of cheering up, since you're- you're going to be here for a long time, or so your healer says. You would've liked her" he tells the unmoving man as he places the vase on the small table beside the bed, spells water into it and puts the flowers in. They're lilies, white and red.

He sits "she has black hair, the healer. A pretty face, as well- looks a lot like Cho Chang, that Ravenclaw who was a year above us and you were mad for all along fourth year and some of fifth year, too. Until you started dating Weasley, in seventh, I though you would end up together, eventually".

"She fawns over you terribly," he confides "all the time, telling me how nice it is that I'm visiting you, when no one else is coming-".

His face turns serious "you shouldn't be mad at Hermione," he says "it's very hard for her. She came once, but, well, she cried so much, even after, at work... with the both of you, like this- she visits Weasley, a lot. But then, the healers say he's likely to wake up any time now".

"She loves you" he continues. "I think she's a little mad at me, that you're the one lying here and not me. But than, I'm a little mad at you, too. Always doing the heroic thing, you were, always acting from your heart, and not from your logical thinking. Thinking wasn't your forte".

"And now I owe you" he says, a little roughly. "Now I have to get on with my life, knowing all the while that it should've been you, living them. It's a great burden you gave me, along with this gift. It's as if I have to live two lives now, mine and yours. Or, rather, that I have to live yours".

He sighs, looking sad "even now, when you are practically dead, I'm in your shadow. I think I will always be in your shadow. When we were in school, it was the shadow of you outdoing me, and now it's the shadow of your life, the life that you should've lived, the life that you gave to me".

"I need to go" he gets up, the plastic wrapper scrunching in his hand.

"Goodbye, Harry" he says. The door closes behind him.

In the Room, Harry's nose twitches.

---------

V.

The door opens. The man enters, another buque of flowers in his arms. Again, they are white and red lilies, although the wrapper is green this time.

He throws the flowers in the vase away, changes the water, and puts the new flowers in.

"Morning, Harry" he says, looking at the sleeping man.

"You know, it's so strange to think you're not even twenty. When we graduated you were almost eighteen, and the war started about a month before that. You're here more then three months already, and the war was a little more than a year. It's absurd to think that the fate of the entire wizarding world rested on the shoulders of an eighteen-year-old boy. After all, you were barely eighteen when you defeated Voldemort. You're not even nineteen now".

He sucks in an angry breath "no one's life should end at eighteen" he says harshly. "All because of a stupid prophecy, and Dumbledore, with those ideals he drilled into your head- about morals, and right and wrong, and ethics- but then, you had sort of a break-up at the end of fifth year, didn't you? Because of your godfather. Hermione told me. Still, you were pretty down when he died".

"Me, I never liked him that much anyway, though of course he was better than Voldemort. Anyone's better than him".

There is silence for a while. The wind breezes in from the window, open despite the cold. The blonde gets up and closes the window, muttering about making Harry's condition worse. He sits back down. There is silence again.

"Hermione doesn't want me to come here anymore" he says suddenly. "She says it's not healthy, to live the rest of my life like that, feeling in debt to you, just because you saved my life. She says it was just the way you were. She says I need to face my life, that I can't hide behind you".

He scowls, his thin mouth twisting "bullocks. She's the one talking about facing life, but she can't even face you. She says she busy, and 'today isn't a good day, maybe tomorrow' and 'Draco, stop nagging', but I can see she's just afraid. To face you, that is".

Draco frowns, childishly "she's already got used to the fact that you're gone. That you're not coming back. I think that she thinks that if she will come here, and see you, it will be like loosing you all over again".

"She says it sick, what I'm doing- that you're not here, never will be here, and I need to stop coming. And she calls herself your friend" he huffs "I'm not leaving you here, like an old statue, to collect dust".

He turns his head away, suddenly unable to face the boy in the bed. "Besides, it's not true, what she said, that I come here because I feel guilty. Although I do, of course. I-"

He stared at the wall, looking very young, all of the sudden. He is. Barely nineteen himself, after all.

"I like coming here" he confesses. "I- like seeing you, even if you're not talking back. I can't shake the feeling that you'll wake up any second, and ask me what I'm doing here. 'Malfoy,' you'll say, 'why are you sitting next to my bed?'" he smiles, then stops as something else occurs to him "but, then, of course, you'll tell me to fuck off, and to call Hermione and Weasley on my way out".

He gets up, looks at the sleeping boy, then, very quickly, smoothes his hair. He hurries to the door, then stops. "I thought you'd like to know" he says, not turning around "that Weasley opened his eyes today. They're transferring him to the temporary ward. They say that if everything is fine, he'll be out in a week or two".

The door closes.

Behind him, Harry's eyes scrunch, and his left foot twitches, the fingers curling and uncurling a few times before they stop.

--------

VI.

The door opens. Draco comes in, and again, he is carrying flowers. The same red and white lilies, and today, around the plain red wrapper, there is a large, red bow. He changes the flowers, leaving the bow awkwardly on the table, too.

"Hi" he says. "I missed you".

His nose is red, and his hair wet, matted to his face. It looks a soggy gold, now, not whitish-blond. "First real rain" he says. "A bit early, really, as it's not even December yet".

He dries himself quickly with his wand.

"I saved your wand, you know" he tell Harry. "When you fell, I took it. Don't know why. I'm glad I did- when-"he bites his lip and corrects himself "-if you wake up, you won't have to get a new one. You'll have your old wand. Wouldn't that be nice?"

He sighs "it's so frustrating, to sit here, and talk to you, and you're not answering. And I feel these things-"he falls silent.

His clock ticks, from somewhere inside his shirt pockets. Time passes. A car honks outside.

"I-"he tries again "when I smoothed your hair, last time, it was nice. Very nice. And I found myself thinking-"he closes his eyes, blushing and looking mortified "I found myself thinking, what it would be like to kiss you".

He opens his eyes. No thunder, no lightning, no pretty healer bursting into the room to kick him out. No Harry answering, either.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks. No answer, of course. He smiles, a little, very nervously. "I guess you're not objecting, at least".

He leans close, studying the sleeping boy's face. "You've got a nice face, you know. Nicer than mine, anyway. But you look so strange, with your eyes closed and your glasses off" the glasses are on the table next to his bed, after someone found them and brought them here. One lens is broken.

"So, here goes" he says, screwing his eyes shut, and leans close. His lips press on Harry's mouth for a few moments, and then he jerks away, jumping to his feet.

"God, what am I doing!?" he hisses, and bolts out the door, slamming it behind him.

In the bed, Harry smiles.

-------

VII.

The door opens. Draco enters, holding the flowers, and a big, fluffy teddy bear. He changes the flowers, settles the bear on the foot of the bed, and sits.

"I'm sorry" he says, "that I ran out like that. I guess I just got frightened. It scary, to realize you're in-"he pauses.

"Weasley got released today," he says, instead. "No permanent damage, except for a slight limp- better than most those who survived. He was devastated, I heard, when he found out about your... condition. He went down in the same battle you did, but before, remember? I guess you do. He was your best friend, after all. Me" he sucks in a breath, face closed "I wasn't even your best enemy".

"He and Hermione are getting married. They were planing it before- but I guess you knew that- but than Weasley got hit, and you... Anyway, now that he's awake, they want to do at as soon as possible. I'm invited, of course- Hermione invited me, though Weasley wasn't so enthusiastic. He wanted to hold the ceremony here, so you'd be present, too, but Hermione refused. She said it was sick. She uses that word a lot, lately".

"Anyway, I'll tell you how it was. They're a bit young to get married, in my opinion, but that's what people do after wars, get married young and have lots and lots of babies. Or so I'm told".

He puts his hand on Harry's face, his thumb tracing circles on his cheek "why won't you wake up?" he asks, almost desperately. He buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck "this is crazy" he mumbles, his words muffled by skin and cloth. "Hermione was right, this is sick. I should stop coming. I should have stopped when she told me to. I should never have came at all. But then, I've never been able to turn away from you".

He bites back a sob, but a drop of moister lands on a Harry's collar "this is crazy. I'm falling- I've fallen for you. I'm in love with you. This is hopeless. They say you'll never wake up. I fallen in love with you, and you'll never wake up, you'll just continue to sleep and waste away, while I'll have to watch you".

He kisses him, the gets up and heads to the door. Without turning, he whispers "goodbye, Harry. I'm not coming again. I'm sorry. Goodb-"

He wipes his eyes, almost angrily, and closes the door behind him.

Behind him, in the room, Harry opens his eyes.


	2. Part II

Desclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, lovely, lovely lady that she is. I claim ownership on Harry's teddy bear, though.

Big thank-yous to all those who review, it means the world to me. You are lovely, lovely people. Just like JK Rowling.

A/N: I made a mistake with Harry and Draco's ages. Please read the author's note at the end after you finish this part. Thank you.

Harry opens his eyes, blinks, groans. The sunlight is hurting his eyes, his mouth is dry, and his muscles feel stiff, as though he hasn't used them in quite a while.

_Where am I?_ He thinks, as he registers the room he is in. It is a small room, with a polished wooden floor, and two windows. The curtains on the windows are of a floral design, and secured to the sides with faded ribbons.

He is in a bed. A hospital bed, at that; he spent enough time at the Hogwarts infirmary as a child to recognize the harsh, plain metal frame and the crisp white sheets.

On the small table next to the bed there is a green glass vase, with red and white lilies in it. Harry touches a petal, wondering. They seem fresh. Someone must have been here recently.

He sits up, clutching at the iron frame as a spell of dizziness attacks him. When it passes, he notices the teddy bear sitting on the foot of his bed. It is a brownish-yellow, with big, sad button eyes and uneven ears. There is a Gryffindor scarf tied around its neck, and Harry smiles. _Ron_, he thinks, _or Hermione. The flowers must be from them, too_.

He listens. No sound reaches his ears. He is alone.

He slides his legs from under the covers, shivering when they touch the cold floor, and stands. _Well_, he thinks, as he shakes, _at least my legs support me. Sort of_.

He is wearing a light green robe, and is barefoot. He searches for his glasses, finding on the table next to the lilies.

Ignoring the broken glass, he puts them on. The room comes into focus. "All righty then" he says, wincing when his voice grinds out like sandpaper "to find someone, then".

Harry walks to the door, opens it, closes it behind him. He finds himself in a long corridor, lit by hovering bubbles shining a sterile white. There are doors here and there, and after a few steps he notices a sign.

_Permanent Ward_ he reads, then frowns. _Why would I be in a permanent ward...? Just how long_ am _I_ here

He continues to walk, supporting himself on the wall. When he reaches the door at the end of the corridor, he hesitates. The door is made of thick glass, with a white frame, and on the door he can make out the silver lettering written backwards: DRAW TNENAMREP.

He pushes it open. It creaks loudly.

He is in a small room, a waiting room of a sort. There are a few benches, a small coffee table, another door, and a coloured clay mask on a wall. A pretty, dark-haired woman wearing green healer robes and holding a steaming mug is sitting next to the table, reading a parchment. She looks up when he enters.

Her mug crashes to the floor, pieces of porcelain swimming among the tea.

----------

Harry blinks at her. Her hand is pressed to her mouth, her eyes impossibly wide. He smiles weakly "hi?" he tries.

"You..." she says. "How...?" she tries again, still gaping. He frowns "what?"

Not taking her eyes off him, as though he is just an illusion that will disappear if she blinks, she back away, until her back touches the wall. She puts her hand on the mask's nose, and a bored male voice rings in the room "main reception speaking".

"This is healer-in-charge Annie Greenclover, Permanent Ward. He's awake. Harry Potter's awake". The male voice sounds tense now "what? I must have heard you wrong- I thought you said-"

"You heard me right" she snaps.

"He's awake, in fact, he's standing here in the room with me-"

"Oh, oh!" the male voice breathes "yes, yes, of course. It makes perfect sense. He is Harry Potter, after all. I'll, I'll just send people along, shall I? I need to inform everyone, call the Daily Prophet..." the voice drifts off.

"I'm sorry, "Harry says "but what, exactly, is going on here?" he feels he deserves an explanation. He feels, that considering the fact that he is the one who woke up in a strange room in a hospital, and that the first people he sees act as though he's just risen from the grave, he is handling the situation extremely well.

"I'm sorry," Annie the healer says, still staring at him with the eyes of a deer caught in a light. "Please sit down, I... it's just that..." she gestures helplessly to a bench.

He sits down "yes?" he asks. She sits as well.

"Do you remember what happened? What's the last thing you recall?" he thinks. Flashes of faces spring up, lights, a snow blizzard, figures in dark robes shooting spells at them. Ron going down, his blood staining the snow. Blonde hair, and an unbelievable pain...

"I got hit," he says eventually, with some difficulty "that's why I'm in here. How's Ron? Ron Weasley, he got hit, too..."

The healer frowns "tall, red hair?" he nods. "He's fine. He was here for a while, but got released a week or two ago," she says, and he lets out a breath in relief. "And Hermione? Granger, she took a short course here..." the healer shrugs "never hospitalized in the first place".

"Mr. Potter," she says, a tad impatiently, but at least her eyes are back to normal "how are you feeling? Any dizziness, hunger, pain?" Harry shakes his head "I was dizzy when I woke up, but I'm fine now. No pain, either".

She shakes her head in wonder "this is... a miracle. I can't think of any other word for it" he looks at her, confused "why?"

"Well, to be frank, we didn't think you'd wake up. It was impossible enough that you survived the killing curse, again, but that you'd wake up?"

He flushes, feeling uncomfortable, and changes the subject "how long was I here?" he asks.

She thinks "more than four months, if I'm not mistaken".

"What!?" now it's his turn to stare "how-how is that possible? What day is it?" she glances at the second door "Wednesday. The twenty-three of December" "December" he repeats, in a hollow voice "it was August, when we had that battle..."

Images are playing themselves in his mind, fast and blurred. But, he doesn't remember all of them. Not really.

"Did someone visit me, when I was..." he swallows "it's just that, I remember, a voice, talking. Something about flowers, and the battle, and Hogwarts..."

She smiles "flowers, you said? Yes, someone did visit you. A young man, very handsome, if I do say so myself. He brought you flowers every time, always the same flowers" her tone turns sly "is he your boyfriend?" she asks "he left barely half an hour ago".

"What? No, no!" he leans back "I had someone, once, but she... she died, in the beginning..." the healer averts her eyes "I'm sorry" she says, "I was out of line".

He waves his hand "never mind. The man, what did he look like?" her eyebrows knit together "about your height, slim, blond".

He thinks. Seamus is- was- he won't go there- and Zacharias is blond, but certainly not slim, not with his shoulders, and much higher than Harry. _Justin Filch-Fletchly, maybe?_

"He dressed very well- expensive and elegant" the healer supplies, trying to be helpful "a very light blond, almost white"

Harry is taken aback. _Surely, not...? It couldn't be. Why would he..._

"Arrogant looking, was he?" he asks, "his face sort of pointed?" "Yes, that's him!" the healer says happily "friend of yours, was he?"

"No," Harry says shortly, masking a pang "he wasn't. We weren't on the best of terms, him and me".

The healer looks bemused, now, her pretty mouth pressed thin "then why did he come?" she asks. "He brought you flowers. He bought you a teddy-bear, for Merlin's sake!"

Harry shrugs. He is wondering the same thing.

---------

After the team of healers dispatched has examined him, over and over, fussing and saying things like "my god, Franklin, he's really awake" and "on my word, this is... this is very unusual, isn't it? Don't think I've ever heard of anything like this, just waking up like that...", even after the pretty dark-haired healer winked at him, slipped a floo number into his hand and said "call me, some time", he finds himself changing his hospital robe into muggle clothing, and leaving.

Hermione and Ron are waiting for him in the main reception. He smiles when he saw them. They burst into tears.

Ron is very pale, leaning on a crutch, but he gives Harry a big, wet grin and hugs him. But Hermione is very thin, much thinner than he remembered her, and she won't meet his eyes. He frowns at her. "Hermione," he says "look at me".

She raises her head, and her eyes of full of guilt. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"What for?" he asks. She hangs her head "I- I never came to see you. They said you wouldn't wake up, and I just couldn't- I didn't believe in you. I'm so sorry..."

He hugs her "don't be an idiot. The healers told you I was finished. No one could have known-""That's not true" she interrupts him, her voice fierce "Draco did. He came all the time, and yelled at me when I refused to come, too. He said I would have to face you sooner or later. He was right"

She lifts her head to look at him "you do know he visited you?" she asks, and he nods. "I don't know why, I think it was his survivors guilt-"

"Survivors guilt?" he asks. She looks taken aback "yes. Because you saved his life? Pushed him out of the killing curse's way and got hit yourself?" when he blinks at her, she says sharply "you don't remember?"

He tries to. He remembers the snow, though it was August, so it makes no sense. And he remembers blond hair. He tries harder.

_Snow, so much snow, in the air and on the ground, and so cold. Ron would freeze if they wouldn't get him to a safe place soon. Hermione on his left, her hair flying around, her eyes blazing, shouting curse after curse in a terrifying speed. Trees, before them, dark, and deadly, because of the Death Eaters they hide. He can barely see them through the snow._

"Wait," he says.

_Yes, Draco on his right, his light hair smeared with mud, his face with blood. He is shouting, too, and hitting the trees more then the enemy. They all are. It's so hard to see, you just have to aim and hope._

"_Bloody hell" Draco says, between hexes "I'm freezing my arse off" his voice is hoarse, from the shouting and the cold, and he is sick, not yet healed from his pneumonia. Still, he brings a grin to Harry's face._

"I think..." Harry says.

_A movement between the trees catches Harry's eye. Too late, he recognizes the green light. "Duck, Draco!" he yells, too afraid, too horrified to realize he's called him by his given name._

_But Draco is sick, and slow, and the blizzard is deafening. "What?" he yells back._

"_Fuck!" Harry screamed, and flings himself at Draco, pushing the blonde to the ground, to the snow. He can still hear, for a moment, Draco's surprised yell, before the curse hits him, and he drowns in darkness._

"I remember," he says.

"Why did you do it?" Hermione asks "why did you save his life?"

Harry mulls this over. "Because he made me smile, during that battle" he tells her at last "because I thought it was worth something".

---------

As they leave, people gawk at them, stopping to watch him pass by. Ron rolls his eyes and teases "can't get enough of the boy who lived, can they," but his happiness is genuine, and overwhelming.

Harry feels stupid, walking with a big, fluffy teddy bear under one arm and a vase with flowers in the other. Still, at least he's walking.

A thought suddenly occurs to him "where is my wand?" he asks.

His friends shake their heads. "Don't know" Hermione answers "you dropped it, apparently, when you-fell" her breath catches, and she takes a minute to compose herself before continuing "and we were so concerned with getting you and Ron help that we didn't stop to look for it. And after, well... it seemed you wouldn't need it anymore, anyway, so there was no point in looking for it".

He had expected this already, of course, but it still dampens his spirits. "Right," he says "never mind".

Hermione stops suddenly, turning to him "when are you going to visit Draco?"

He startles "what?"

She puts her hands on her hips, glaring at him "he came to see all this time. He spent hours there- I know for a fact that he was late to work a few times. You have to go see him, even if just to ease his guilt. You owe him that".

"All right, I'll go" he mutters, feeling irritated. He doesn't want to see Draco, not now, not later, not sure what to think about the fact that the stuffed toy he is holding now was given to him by Draco. That Draco came to see him, time after time, talking for hours- because he is starting to remember, snatches of a voice, and a hand on his forehead.

"When?" Hermione demands, and he shrugs "later". She sighs "don't get your dislike for him get in the way. For some reason, he has come to care about you. Come with us back to my flat- you can floo from there".

He isn't letting his dislike for get in the way. He knows this, because he doesn't dislike him. On the contrary. Why else would he keep seeing his face, sharp and pale, with snow in his hair? What else could've made him save him?

_Cares about you_, Hermione says, and his heart skips a beat.

Instead of answering, he asks, "why was there snow, that day? It was August" Hermione wraps her coat tighter around herself, quickening her footsteps "the Death Eaters created the blizzard, to blind us. Worked, too, in addition to freezing us".

She reaches a tall building, its front door made with smoked glass and painted in peeling black, and rummages in her pockets, producing a key.

She opens the door, ushering them in. Harry drops the bear and Ron picks it up and hands it back to him, smiling. He thanks him.

They climb a few sets of stairs, and stop next to another peeling door. The whole building looks as though it'll fall down any moment. Harry isn't too optimistic about the flat.

He is surprised when the flat, though small, looks pleasant and homey. There are books everywhere, of course, and parchments, a tattered sofa, an overstuffed red armchair. The fireplace is quite small, but the fire inside is burning merrily, warming Harry to the core just from looking at it.

"There's floo powder in the jar on the mantle," Hermione says briskly, and when Harry protest, ushers him impatiently towards it. Ron's objections are overruled.

"Just say Malfoy Manor" she instructs, throwing a handful of powder in the fire and half-pushing him inside. The Fire roars, high and green.

"Malfoy Manor" he sighs, giving up, and is shoved into the emerald flames.

--------

Harry has always hated traveling by floo, and this time is no different. He hates the spinning, and the soot he breathes when he opens his mouth, and the fact that he has no control over himself during these excruciating minutes. At last he slows, then stops completely, and falls out of the fireplace onto an expensive Persian rug. He is disoriented, and dizzy, and his elbows are scratched and painful, because as always, he forgot to tuck them in when he stepped inside the fire. To make things worse, a pair of elegant, pristine shoes stop before him, and a familiar, disbelieving voice says "Harry!?"

Harry looks up. This isn't how he wanted his first meeting with Draco to go, after all that has happened. He wanted to step out of the fireplace gracefully, smile pleasantly at a familiar, arrogant Draco, and talk. Draco would smirk, drawl something along the lines of "living up to your title, I see, Potter", Harry would reply with a smirk of his own, saying "can't disappoint anyone, can we?" and everything will be as it was, comfortable, and most important of all, well-known.

Tumbling gracelessly out of the fireplace, covered in ash and dizzy, isn't what he had in mind. Having Draco call him Harry, white and obviously trembling, and look at him like Harry was a ghost, is even farther than what he has imagined.

"Er," he says, feeling stupid and slow "yes?"

Draco is still staring at him, drained of colour and frozen. Harry gets up, swaying slightly, and dusts himself off. Soot settles like snowflakes on the pale carpet, and he winces.

"Hi," he tries.

Draco opens his mouth, looking bewildered, and then his face tightens. He glares at Harry, says "bugger off", and leaves the room, his back stiff and his moves rigid.

Harry blinks after him "what the..." he hurries after him "Malfoy, wait!"

The blonde stops. "What" he says sharply "did you just call me?"

Harry, feeling more confused every minute, gapes at him "I called you Malfoy" he says "your name, if I recall correctly, and I'm pretty sure I do. What is wrong with you, exactly?"

Malfoy, his eyes still hard, takes three longs steps until he is an inch from Harry. Harry leans back, making a face "Malfoy," he says, trying not to breath through his nose "Ugh. Have you been drinking?"

Draco roles his eyes "ye-es" he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Harry thinks it **was** a bit daft to ask, as the man is positively reeking of alcohol. He narrows his eyes "why else would I be seeing you?"

"Merlin, just what **have** you been drinking?" Harry says "it's awful!" then he registers the second part of Draco's words. "What?" he says, feeling dafter by the moment. Then comprehension dawns "I'm real, Malfoy".

Draco shrugs, flowing and a little wobbly "of course you'd say that" he tells Harry, and he does sound more than a little tipsy "I admit, calling me Malfoy instead of Draco was a stroke of brilliance, I nearly fell for it. But the real Harry Potter is lying in St. Mungosdead to theworld, and to me more than anyone. This" he gestures at Harry and nearly falls over "is just a figure of my aching imagination, of my lust and hunger for him. He is not going to wake up, ever, I just have to learn to live with it-"he stops. His eyes look wet.

_Aching imagination_, Harry's mind repeats. _Lust and hunger_.

"Wait," he chokes. Everything is moving too fast for him, suddenly "you... "

"_Can I kiss you?" a voice asks, foggy and far away_. Harry closes his eyes. _"Well, here goes" the same voice says, drifting by, and a soft pressure on his mouth..._

"Oh," Harry says, his mouth faster than his brain "oh, oh, oh..."

Draco sighs impatiently "will you just go away? It's not healthy, you being here. It's called denial, and it's painful, too".

When Harry doesn't moves, he grinds his teeth "I though hallucinations were supposed to go away, when you realize they're not real. Figures you'd be as stubborn as him" he shuts his eyes, jaw clenched tightly, and hisses "go away! Leave me alone. You're not real, you're not here-"

_Lust and hunger_, Harry's brain insists. _A smile against the snow, gray eyes, and a kiss..._

_Merlin_, Harry's brain says, _you're really dense, aren't you?_

"Oh!" Harry breathes, to himself "yes, yes, I am".

"No, you're not!" Draco shouts "look, I'll prove it to you-"and he grabs hold of Harry, and kisses him.

"NGK" Harry says, to the room.

Draco stumbles back, staring at Harry with horror "oh my god" he whispers "you're real".

Harry thinks this beats his oddest dream, the one about Dumbledore and Crookshanks dancing the tango in a great, round fishbowl.

"Yes" he says "I've been trying to tell you that for the past ten minutes".

------------

Draco seems rooted to the spot, gray and almost washed out in his dark clothing. His light hair is messy, strands sticking around in every direction and falling into his eyes, and his face is sharper than Harry remembered it; the nose and chin jutting out painfully, the hollows under his cheekbones deep.

He looks older than Harry remembers, too; as if not four months has passed, but four years.

"Harry," Draco exhales, one word broken and hopeful at the same time.

Harry smiles at him. He can hear his heart hammering between his ribs, tattooing patterns on the bones.

The blonde reaches out a hand, hesitatingly. It hovers next to Harry's face, trembling.

Harry takes a step closer, puts his hand on Draco's face. It's cold under his palm, smooth and dry.

Draco doesn't even blink, as though he's afraid Harry will vanish into thin air in the half-moment he won't be looking.

He angles his face into Harry's hand, a wondering expression on his face. His own hand has finally settled on the back of Harry's neck, icy fingers curled against his spine and dipping into his shirt collar.

Harry shivers.

They stand like that for a few minutes, watching each other. Draco's eyes are pale, wide, his lashes only a shade darker then his hair. At the moment, they are frightened, and awestruck.

"Why..." Draco whispers, and though Harry isn't sure what the question is, he is sure of the answer.

"Because," He says, and leans in to kiss him.

A/N: To all those who wondered (if anyone did, that is) Harry is nineteen years five months old. The war started in June, before his eighteen birthday, and lasted for a year and two months. He was in comma for four months. Draco's birthday is in October, making him nine months older than Harry, and therefore already twenty.


End file.
